We were walking into Ultra Music Festival, and just as we came around a corner, we saw a giant boombox blasting 808s and emitting smoke. We got closer to see what was up. Turns out, it was the UMF Radio stage, but it was overrun with hip-hop electro fusion.

When we tried to leave a few minutes later, we saw the sign on the stage and knew we were doomed. For the next ten hours or so, we were Trapped.

We just realized escape is impossible. We're praying for to the gods to have Lamborghini Mercy on our soul. Also, why was everyone calling it the "Trap Tent" all weekend? There is no fucking shade here whatsoever.

02:45 p.m.

Let's just take a moment to reflect on the irony that Carnage is making his UMF debut at the stage dedicated to a genre he just claimed a week ago was dead.

03:35 p.m.

A wild FRAT approaches. He appears to be vibing, perhaps even leaning. Maybe that's just the influence of TNGHT.

03:39 p.m.

It's been more than an hour in the trap. Green Lantern is stirring things up with some reggae vibes. Soon he will make room for his "brother Craze." So far, we have learned that "getting money" is vital to anyone in the trap. We don't have very much money right now. We might have to start sticking bros and raiding their hoods.

04:05 p.m.

Craze hits the stage after an epic intro. We will never understand why this man doesn't play to straight thousands of people at a venue like this. Surely, he'll wake up the hot masses.

It's ironic how much gun music is going off at a festival with signs at the entrance reading "no weapons allowed." Also, it's 4:20 and we have no weed, so life is pretty terrible.

04:33 p.m.

This crazy dancing guy shows up. He demonstrates his Asian-inspired moves. You've got to know karate in the trap, in case you catch static on the street and you ain't strappin'.

04:50 p.m.

FACT: Trap music makes girls of all races dance like they're trying to get pregnant.

05:20 p.m.

Some ignorant bro wanders the grounds asking everyone who is playing. He seems to find great pleasure in the idea that no one knows. We find greater pleasure in telling him it's Bro Safari and looking at him like he's an idiot.

05:41 p.m.

Apparently, someone almost died in the trap and left their empty sodium chloride packet on their way to the hospital. It's a mean life in the trap. You live this life, you end up dead or in jail. That's the only way out.

Things have gotten much darker in the trap. A masked man calling himself UZ reigns gun-slanging terror over the crowd. He won't stop shooting at them and they can't stop dancing.

06:47 p.m.

Oh thank fucking god the sun is starting to go down. We're pretty sure we could die at any moment. We're about to start sucking at those sodium chloride packets, or the dripping sweat off that girl's ass.

07:10 p.m.

Nadastrom from D.C. are bringing the tropical vibe to Miami. The crowd is feeling it, but you can tell they still want more of that "real trap shit."

We've heard a lot of gun clips and we don't see any shells. We're calling shenanigans on this trap. Where the hood at?

09:35 p.m.

Baauer is breathing new life into this place. The crowd is more swollen than ever. But the strangest thing happemed. He told them to "do the Harlem Shake," and though everyone danced, not a single one of them listened. They don't seem to actually understand that it's a real dance.

10:00 p.m.

We've officially lost phone signal in the trap. Just yell whooty-whoo when you see cops.

10:05 p.m.

Most ironically, a phone tone can be heard over the system. Flosstradamus is calling. They're coming to collect their spot at the top.

10:26 p.m.

Bitches have decided to forego clothes entirely. Now, girls are just dancing in their underpants.

Something weird is happening. We don't hear any trap anymore. Something more random and bizarre is going on. It must be Dillon Francis. It sounds like Ultra's got him "Burning Up."

11:45 p.m.

OMG, fireworks!

11:50 p.m.

Wait. It's over?! We can go home now?! We can leave the trap?! We have run it and it is complete?!

12:45 p.m.

I come looking for you with Haaaaatians. I stay smoking on good Jamaaaaaaican. I fuck bitches of different raaaaaaces. You get money they started haaaaaaaating. I woke up in a new Bugatti. Turns out you can't leave the trap, even when you leave the Trapped stage. You'll just end up singing Ace Hood and Future hooks until you smoke so much weed you pass out.

Kat Bein is a freelance writer for Miami New Times and has been described as the publication’s "senior millennial correspondent." She holds a bachelor of science in journalism from the University of Florida and an impressive, if unhealthy, knowledge of all things pop culture. With a career emphasis on dance music, she is also a regular contributor to Billboard, Vice’s Thump, and Insomniac.com.